On Tuesday, serial plagiarist and "not famous" famous actor Shia LaBeouf invited the public to join him at
his latest cry for help in Los Angeles. According to the press
release for his new performance entitled "#IAMSORRY," LaBeouf will be "in
situ" at an art gallery for six days so he can apologize for his sins.

So I went.

When I arrived at the Cohen Gallery on Beverly a few hours after it opened, there were five people in line in front
of me. The pacing security guard asked, "Anyone here from the press?" Four of us sheepishly raised our hands. The only person who
didn't raise his hand was the second person in line, a good looking, sharply
dressed dude who identified himself as a UTA talent agent.

LaBeouf might have been sorry,
sincerely sorry, but the only people present to witness the apology on
Tuesday afternoon were those of us who are paid to care.

Only
one person was allowed to enter at a time, so the line moved slowly. When patrons reached the front of the line, the
security guard looked through their bags, skimmed their bodies with a metal
detecting wand, and then—and I don't think this was protocol—the bored guard engaged them in chitchat.

Buzzfeed staffers, whose office is located across the street from the
gallery, had apparently been taking
turns all day waiting to enter. I was in line behind one Buzzfeed; a trio of
Buzzfeeds joined behind me. At one point a whole gaggle of Buzzfeeds who had
already been inside the exhibit strolled by, teasing their coworkers who still hadn't been inside yet.

A Los Angeles Times photographer and reporter showed up, trying to
talk their way inside the exhibit together. But rules were rules, said the
security guard. One person at a time and no cameras. The Times reporter grabbed a spot at the
end of the growing line and began interviewing the only person there who was
not on assignment or employed by Buzzfeed. That man gave very serious answers while clutching a seriously tiny
skateboard.

A reporter from E!, who was two people in front of me, pointed out that the UTA agent had been inside for a very long time. In
Los Angeles, I guess it's never a bad time to get a private sit-down with a star.

When I reached the front of the line, the guard leaned in and
whispered to me, "So uh, is your take that this guy is fuckin nuts?" "Yes," I
whispered back, "so why are you here?" He laughed it off and never answered. I thought he must somehow be part of the show. My
paranoia grew; I was convinced I was being recorded.

And then I was permitted to enter. I was greeted by a young woman standing behind the table. I asked for
her name and she confirmed she was Nastja Säde
Rönkkö, who, along with LaBeouf and Luke Turner, is a collaborator on the
exhibit. She stood in front of a table covered with random objects and told me I was
free to take any
implement I wanted into the back room. My options:
a pink ukulele, a Transformers toy, a bowl of Hershey's Kisses, a vase of
daisies, a wrench, a whip, Brut for Men spray cologne, Jack Daniels, a bowl filled
with printed out LaBeouf-related tweets, and a copy of The Death-Ray by Daniel Clowes.

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I grabbed one of the tweets ("You're still famous in my heart, even tho you've turned into a
douche wad"), but I put it back. The whole set-up was stupid and insulting. I didn't take anything. In retrospect, this was a dumb move because I could have at least gotten a free swig
of Jack out of the deal. I was led behind a set of curtains and into a smaller space. In the middle of the room, sitting alone at a bistro table, was
LaBeouf. He was wearing a tuxedo and an "I'm Not Famous
Anymore" bag over his head. His hands were resting on the table. He was not
moving.

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I had plans to ask him great
questions, to make him laugh, hold his hand, take off his bag, and convince him
to take a picture with me. But when we locked eyes, I was unnerved. LaBeouf had been crying; under his right eye hole the bag
was soaked with tears and stuck to his face. I introduced myself. "Are you tired?" I asked. "This must be exhausting." Another tear fell.

It might have been art, it
might have been real emotion—it was probably just bullshit—but at that moment, I
realized I was stuck in a tiny room with a seemingly unstable crying man who was
wearing a bag on his head. Imagine the most uncomfortable internet date possible, but add a weeping Shia LaBeouf and subtract the alcohol
because you stupidly left the bottle in the other room. It was like that, but much, much worse. I wanted to get the fuck out as soon as possible.

I fumbled through my notes and he
kept staring at me. I could hear him breathing. The
questions I had prepared seemed stupid ("Are you mad Dumb Starbucks stole your
thunder?") so I stared at his dirty fingernails and stupid hand tattoos and
attempted small talk, "You must be sick of this shit." He nodded slightly.
I told him I was sick of it, too.

I didn't know what else to say, so we sat alone for awhile. The wet spot
on his bag kept growing. I couldn't take it anymore.

I know everyone will spend the next few
days comparing him to Marina Abramović, talking about whether or not this was art, whether or not he's for real. I know that there are already tricks
and tips online about how to hack the whole LaBeouf apology funhouse. In the next few days, someone will probably get him to dance, get him to take off his bow tie, or force him to admit the buffoon with the metal detector out front is part of the act. It might be funny.

But when I was leaving, it wasn't funny. I felt sorry for
him. I felt manipulated. And I felt angry that I was in a fucking art space on Beverly on a Tuesday afternoon probably getting tricked by some dude who would never,
if circumstances were different, want to sit alone with me at a table.

So I did the only thing that felt appropriate. I stood in the doorway and told him I was sorry too.